


Greensleeves

by wildeflower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxious Liam Payne, Artist Zayn Malik, Classical Music, Fluff and Angst, Isolation, M/M, Melancholy, Mutual Pining, Piano, References to Depression, Sad Liam Payne, Sad Zayn Malik, Slow Burn, but it hasn't been explicitly mentioned, do people still write 1d fics in 2020?, it's full blown depression lads, more numb than sad really, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildeflower/pseuds/wildeflower
Summary: Zayn decides to isolate himself from the world after leaving the band. Liam decides to follow in his footsteps. Literally.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Kudos: 4





	1. september

To be or not to be, that is the question.

Zayn used to think it was all worth it.

It's September and the thunderstorm shows no signs of abating. Zayn hopes it doesn't. Not today. Not ever.

The world is blue, blue, blue and Zayn Malik is bluer still. 

_378 Phthalo Blue_ blended expertly with a hint of _368 Cerulean Blue,_ fading away into _1829 Payne's Grey_ at the edges.

The windows are large and of the French kind. Zayn knows these things now. French windows, French airports, French stadiums. 

The screams are always the same. Nothing particularly French about the French ones. Nothing particularly English about the English ones. The same roaring din. Day in. Day out. The screams are always the same.

Are?

Were.

Will be. 

One Direction is on the telly, laughing and slapping their knees. The crowd is roaring. There is no crowd. The crowd never goes away.

The kettle goes off. Zayn pours himself a cup of tea, keeping his eyes fixed on the four boys on the telly. Their eyes are sad. Have been for a couple days. 

"It's gonna be good. It's gonna be intimate." Niall Horan promises on the screen, talking about the tour. His voice is deep.

Louis Tomlinson is staring down at his hands, flexing his fingers. His tan is deeper.

Harry Styles is sitting back silently, thumbs running over his ridiculous rings. Zayn looks away, clenching his jaw.

Liam Payne is talking too fast, smiling too wide at nothing at all. The lines on his face are the deepest. Zayn walks closer, tea in his right hand ( _552 Raw Sienna_ ), remote in the left. His thumb moves to the power button.

"...so they're all like... these little jig-saw pieces.." Liam Payne is speaking now, quiff too high, eyes too dark, clothes too immaculate, lines too deep. He's interlocking his fingers, talking about jig-saw pieces.

Somewhere on one of the _426 Naples Yellow_ pages of his journal, is a song named Golden.

Every single jig-saw piece, seems to be incomplete.

Zayn presses down on the power button swiftly.

The _A322 Italian Earth_ carpet is warm beneath his feet. His house didn't have a carpet like this. Neither of his houses. He studies its coarse structure for a while, and decides he rather likes it. 

The thunderstorm shows no signs of abating.

_Mars Black_ and _Perylene Black_ and _402 Prussian Blue_ in varying degrees.

Zayn thinks about his family. Mum's dark, worried eyes and the hint of a frown line on Safaa's smooth forehead. 

Zayn stands by the French looking windows (he really _does_ know these things now) and watches the world untangle.


	2. october

It's October. 

It's a fact that the universe is made almost entirely of unknown things. 

The cliffs are treacherous and the seas are unruly.

It's a fact that if Zayn chooses to lean forward a bit, the press will report the suicide of an infamous musician tomorrow afternoon.

The boys are on tour. Fame is fickle. The world is _7016 Mindful Gray,_ and occasionally _7014 Elder White_.

The house he's rented at the edge of the world is a smudge of cream colored nothingness in the unfamiliar cauldron of Norwegian seas and Danish cliffs. It has a lovely amber colored carpet though, and a fireplace that's never unused, so Zayn doesn't mind the nothingness.

He adores it.

October is cold.

October is pale blue winds and frigid, blue gray atmosphere and frost seeping into bone marrow through the little openings on the epidermis. October is thunderstorms almost as loud as the crowds that never go away and a permanent chill infused in the ever-present fog. October is blue and cold and beautiful and the farthest thing from dreary.

It's a fact that October is cold and blue.

It's a fact that Zayn Malik is colder and bluer still.

The fireplace is enough sometimes. The fireplace slows down the _A364 Cold Grey_ mold growing on his edges, living off of him like a vicious velvety parasite. The fireplace is enough for now.

The thunderstorm shows no signs of abating. So Zayn stands by the French looking windows and stares into _Symphony Blue_ nothingness.

Day in. Day out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Zayn in this story, being an artist, looks at everything around him through an artist's eyes; hence the excessive use of oil paint shade names. :)) xx


	3. december

It's December now.

The boys have announced a hiatus.

Niall Horan ( _370 Potter's Pink_ ) is on the telly, laughing and slapping his knee. His eyes are sad, have been for a while.

Most days.

These days?

Ever since.

Zayn knows these things.

Harry Styles ( _516 Green Earth_ ) is in Italy, writing songs about Louis Tomlinson ( _PB36 Cerulean Blue_ blended with _PY53 Nickel Titanate Yellow_ ).

Louis Tomlinson is somewhere slightly beyond Zayn's reach.

Liam Payne is somewhere, nowhere, everywhere.

Zayn isn't sure if the lines are cut deeper.

The cliffs are mossy now, colonized by lichenous structures and bryophytic networks.

The seas are still blue and bottomless and intangible and distant. 

Zayn spends his afternoons reading. He paints at midnight. At dawn, he presses down on the keys of the piano lightly, trying out a different combination of chords in the minor key. By sunrise, his fingers tremble from exhaustion. The piano sits in front of him, just as sturdy, just as dependable. The minor key chords are in his lungs, in his superior vena cava and in his neurons.

The minor keys are blue and contagious. 

_Zayn_ is contagious. The minor keys are just there. Feeding off of him. Maybe they've formed a symbiotic relationship, Zayn and the minor keys.

October and December are not very different at the edge of the world. The seas are wilder, the winds are louder and the world is a cool shade of purple. The snow is surprisingly scarce. The cold is never gone. The crowds don't let him sleep at night. The closest town, the _only_ town on this island is two miles away. The shop delivers fresh produce every two weeks. The last person Zayn spoke to was his mum. In September.

He hasn't seen anyone since. The world is gauzy and tearable and unimportant. He lives on its edge, out here amongst Danish cliffs and seas that are slowly becoming more familiar than either of his houses that aren't his home anymore. Maybe they never were.

This old, seaside abode hidden between the rocky cliffs and the Atlantic ocean is the only place he can call home now.

The only town on this island is two miles away, but the crowds never let him sleep. The crowds never go away.

Harry Styles is on the telly now, laughing and slapping his knee. His eyes are tired. 

Zayn really does know these things.

He switches it off, and stands before the great cauldron of nothingness again.

The French windows offer him a sunrise the color of-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) have a nice day !!


	4. the new year

The new year brings absolutely nothing new to the edge of the world.

Zayn decides to visit the nearest town.

_Mykines_.

It's a small thing nestled in the crook of Danish highlands.

Despite January's pervading chill, the grass is littered with buttercups and heath orchids. _PY35 Cadmium Yellow_ and _Quinacridone Magenta_.

The town itself comprises of a couple handfuls of small, warm-colored houses with sloping sod roofs.

The air is still cold, but there's something familiar about it now. That old, sparse yet lived-in atmosphere that he didn't think he would ever get to breathe in again.

So Zayn just stands there, at the outskirts of a minuscule town with its colorful houses -a rip in the fabric of mediocrity- and its wildflowers, its heavy-footed sheep and the faint but ever-present petrichor lingering in the rigor of early January.

He just stands there and breathes.

-

Nobody recognizes him. Their gazes linger on him a second longer than usual because... Well. A small town on a remote Danish island isn't exactly what one might call diverse.

Later that evening, while sipping on a glass of red wine ( _A66 Caput Mortem_ with _A64 Venetian Red_ overtones), he's glad of his decision.

Zayn sleeps and plays the piano and reads and rings his mother and paints and paints and paints.

Zayn bakes bread and little cakes and muffins and an occasional lasagna. Zayn walks along the black cliffs and stares down at the sea, then up at the palette-knife neat line of the horizon. Zayn sleeps as the sun rises, and stays up with the stars and the winds and his minor keys. Zayn adopts a blind malamute and names her Eldoris.  


The new year brings absolutely nothing new to the edge of the world.

Until it does.

January picks up all the lost, adrift things and washes them ashore at Zayn's door.

January brings him dark, anxious eyes and raw, bitten lips and pale skin. January brings him Liam Payne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lied to you. heath orchids and buttercups don't bloom in January; but for the sake of the story, let's pretend they do yeah? oh and for anyone wondering, the island I had in mind while writing this was Mykines.


	5. fading away

To be or not to be, that is the question.

Liam Payne has moved in with Zayn.

It's a temporary arrangement, Zayn tells himself.

They don't talk. 

Liam Payne sleeps on the couch and avoids the kitchen and stares anxiously at his dead phone whenever Zayn is around. Zayn avoids the living room and the fireplace and the kitchen, and stays holed up in his room. Zayn doesn't waltz with his minor keys anymore. Zayn paints in his room, and asks his dog to stay put.

He doesn't ask Liam Payne how he found Zayn. He knows how.

They don't talk.

Until they do.

One evening, in late January, Liam Payne brings Zayn tea. Zayn doesn't tell him that he doesn't take milk or sugar in his tea anymore. 

Zayn nods, accepts it graciously, and avoids eye contact.

"You paint on canvases now." Liam Payne states after a while.

"It passes the time." Zayn replies, sipping on his tea. He doesn't look up.

"There's a dog." Liam Payne states again.

"Eldoris." Zayn replies, still looking away. "Means ' _of the sea_ '. She's blind."

The guest looks at him for a long time, nods, and walks out.

Zayn exhales in relief, and drinks the rest of the tea even though he doesn't quite like it.

The next morning is blue velvet and brings light rain. Zayn decides he misses the piano. He seats himself on the bench and taps out his favorite tune softly.

Liam Payne is presumably asleep.

Zayn plays _Greensleeves_.

He closes his eyes, and lets his fingers work from memory. 

It rains and rains and rains and Zayn Malik plays his favorite tune of all time. Every now and then, behind closed eyelids, he sees Louis Tomlinson's grinning face, messing up the chords because he knew it annoyed Zayn; he sees Harry Styles placing his chin on Zayn's shoulder as Zayn tapped out this very song; he sees Niall Horan stretched out on the sofa, humming and playing along on his guitar. He sees visions of another faraway world.

Someone is watching him. 

He _really does_ know these things by now.

Zayn keeps his eyes closed.

"You taught me how to play that song." Liam Payne states from the doorway.

He doesn't talk these days, Liam Payne. He states. Blandly. Carefully. As though he's used to it. Zayn knows why.

"I remember." Zayn says softly.

"It's your favorite song." Liam Payne states again.

Zayn keeps playing.

"Did you think about us?" Liam Payne asks. There is nothing impolite about his tone.

_Alas my love you do me wrong._

"I tried to call. I tried to find you. You never picked up." Liam Payne continues, sounding completely bland. Zayn accidentally plays the wrong chord.

_To cast me off discourteously._

"Where were you Zayn?" Liam Payne says, and for the first time, Zayn observes something sad creeping into his voice. 

_And I have loved you oh so long._

"We needed you. _I_ needed you." He says quietly.

Zayn's hand stills over the keys. He doesn't look up. The rain isn't light anymore. Eldoris howls back at the winds in the living room. Long and mournful.

"Where were you?" Liam Payne repeats one last time, sounding very quiet.

Zayn finally meets his eyes.

"I was fading away."

Liam looks away first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greensleeves was the first song I learned to play on the piano. it's a quiet, lovely little thing that brings back memories from another life. if this story had a soundtrack, it would be greensleeves.


	6. rain

They don't talk.

His guest's behavior is uncomfortably similar to Zayn's own behavior when he first moved here.

Liam Payne spends most of his days gazing out of Zayn's French windows. His gaze seems to vacantly alternate between the bleeding horizon and the heaving seas. His mind seems to be elsewhere. 

Zayn plays _Greensleeves_ on the piano. Minor keys float in the air around him. He breathes them in. 

Day in. Day out.

The world is a very faint _402 Prussian Blue._ So that's what Zayn paints.

In the evenings, Zayn takes Eldoris for a walk along the cliffs. He's terribly anxious about the moss, afraid she'll slip on it and hurt herself. Dori is a good strong dog though, and all she does is bark happily before trotting about around his legs. He'd so fond of her it hurts.

Zayn continues painting at midnight. He pretends not to hear Liam Payne's restless sighing from the living room. The crowds haunt him too, Zayn thinks.

One midnight, his guest stands before him as he paints.

Zayn continues painting, and doesn't look up.

The winds are loud, loud, loud, and Zayn is thankful. The world would be horribly quiet without them. This room would be horribly quiet without them.

"It's beautiful." Liam Payne says, looking at the nearly complete painting.

Zayn looks at the canvas critically. _402 Prussian Blue_ blended with _330 Iridescent White_ for the background. A faint streak of _362 Light Red_ at the horizon. _475 Payne's Gray_ mapping out a stormy ocean, with _217 Davys Gray_ froth and _337 Olive Green_ shadows _. 337 Lamp Black_ rocks rising out of the churning seas as _034 Blue Black_ thunderclouds wear themselves out above them.

This painting is Zayn's home.

"It really is." Liam Payne says. Zayn starts a bit.

There is a brief period of quiet. They listen to the winds. 

"Open the windows." Zayn tells him quietly.

There's a confused silence.

"The winds are loud. They drown out the noise up here." Zayn elaborates, tapping on his temple once, keeping his eyes fixed on the canvas before him.

"And if it rains?"

"Then it rains."

Liam Payne says nothing. 

Zayn doesn't notice him walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could see Zayn's painting :(


	7. february

The world is made of overcast skies and formidable cliffs and a good chunk of seething, violent Atlantic wave crests. The world is made of winds so loud and chilling they're nearly tangible. The world is made of dark afternoons and never-ending rain and cream colored French windows. The world is made of fresh vegetables and lazy mornings in the kitchen and the smell of cookie dough baking. The world is made of _Greensleeves_ and strong tea and roaring fireplaces and one big, happy malamute.

The world is perfect.

The world is made of thick silences and shifty glances and courteous nods in the living room.

Nearly perfect.

It's February now.

Zayn is out with Dori.

The small trips to the town have become routine. The people smile at him now. Maybe they recognize his tattoos, or his dog or the color of his skin. They smile, some nod. The telltale signs of familiarity. 

It's February. There are no tourists at this time of the year. Zayn is thankful.

He does the usual; trip to the Bakery, trip to the farmer's market (broth and a cuppa for lunch), watching the sunset from the coast, taking a bus to the cliffs and walking the remaining three or so miles.

It's nearly midnight when he walks through his door. 

Dori is quiet and drowsy. 

Someone is tinkering with the piano.

Zayn stills.

Liam Payne is playing _Greensleeves_.

Dori is nearly asleep.

Zayn picks her up gently and places her down on her little cushion by the fireplace. 

Liam Payne is still playing _Greensleeves_. A little broken, a little messy. 

Zayn goes to the kitchen and prepares two cups of tea. 

The world feels inverted and eerie and so very quiet. The clinking of the spoon against the teacup is jarring. This moment is profound, it's a thick _B328 Oxide Yellow_ , and Zayn isn't certain why.

_I have been ready at your hand_   
_To grant whatever thou would'st crave;_   
_I have waged both life and land_   
_Your love and goodwill for to have._

Zayn steels himself and walks into his room, and freezes.

Liam Payne is playing the piano.

Liam Payne is crying. 

A faint tremor passes through the hands holding teacups.

Zayn stands by the door frame and doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

Another small tear rolls down his guest's cheek. It would be imperceptible if Zayn wasn't watching so intently.

_Greensleeves was my delight,_   
_Greensleeves my heart of gold_   
_Greensleeves was my heart of joy_   
_And who but my lady Greensleeves._

The hands playing the piano still. The room is painfully quiet now, both persons aware of the other's existence but far too caught up in all those complicated little emotions to do anything about it.

And no. No. _No_.

This is not _them_. None of this is. 

Zayn sets the teacups down firmly. The sharp sound tears through the room's thick hush and reverberates against the walls.

"Get up." Zayn says.

Liam Payne looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. The blood vessels in his eyes are still dilated. The tear tracks still glistening. 

Zayn looks away hastily, turning around and hurrying over to his room. A quick forage through his small wardrobe proves fruitful, and he emerges out of his room carrying two coats and a pair of gloves. 

Liam Payne has made no attempt to tidy up, and is still staring at Zayn with furrowed brows. Zayn smiles internally. That's _Liam_. Honest, unfiltered, vulnerable. 

"Get up." He says again, tossing the larger tweed coat and the gray woolen gloves to the other man. 

He slips into his own black coat and downs his tea swiftly. 

Liam Payne is standing next to the piano, looking strangely small in the borrowed tweed. 

"Where?" He asks. It's a simple question.

"You'll see." Zayn replies, smiling a bit.

"How far is it?" Liam Payne asks, playing along.

"About three miles north. We'll walk to Mykines, then take the bus thereon." 

"Why are you doing this?"

Zayn thinks for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there isn't going to be much... happening.. in this fic. sorry :( I listened to Duo.Hansen's version of Greensleeves on repeat while writing this. it's gorgeous, and you MUST listen to it.


End file.
